Fireflies
by comptine
Summary: In Arthur's closet, tucked away in the back, next to his stash of cigarettes and whiskey, there are two things. One is an album of pictures he wished was empty and the other was of a leather jacket he swore to never keep. usuk/frukAU
1. Chapter 1

**Fireflies**

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_There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning._ -Louis Dearborn L'Amour

* * *

It was a dreary day in Kensington. Not a particularly remarkable day either, sombre and quiet. Rain chased down the large window of Arthur's favourite hiding spot, a small café on the corner of Wrights Lane and Cheniston Gardens, a mere five-minute walk from his townhouse. Across the street in a second level iron balcony, a garden spilled out from the dark insides, its vines reaching down the street below, petals of the roses trembling in the rain.

Curled in his preferred corner of the teashop, the_ Yellow Petal Café_, his head leaning against the cold window, Arthur sat at a table for two, his belongings spread out, taking up the entire table with miscellaneous papers and sketches of fantastical creatures and buildings, while his jacket would save the seat across from him for an acquaintance that never arrived.

His pen lazed across the page in large and ornate arches, the remains of an church, overgrown with thick trees that broke through the cracked stone spreading out on the page of an open sketchbook. A unicorn was currently being added to the drawing, his mane draped in fragrant blossoms and tangled vines.

"Morning Mr. Kirkland," said a quiet voice beside him followed the gentle clink of a teacup and plate being placed in front of him. The voice belonged to the owner of the café, a young woman, Katya Braginski, with soft chin-length blond hair that framed her round, petite face, held back by a wide navy headband that accentuated her eyes.

Despite her young age, she had a wrinkle between her brows; puckering over the years she spent raising her two siblings. Arthur often saw them in the back, usually the tall brother, Ivan, in a frilly apron, hulking and being taught how to properly arranged the homemade muffins and jams.

The Brit's sketchbooks were filled with drawings of them, working farms in traditional costumes or the regal wear of their motherlands. He would spend hours slaving over details: the medals on Ivan's chest, the iciness in his eyes and the scarf that hid his childlike smile or the elegant jewels upon the nape of her neck, the gloves along her slim arms and the details on her bodice.

Another would often crop up within the pages. Her long hair usually being plaited and combed by Katya, her stunning face crumpled in a dissatisfied look and her body, soft and curved as it was, always straight and stone-like in stature, nothing like her playfully colossal brother or diminutive and regal sister. Nataliya was often drawn in a throne -always plain and roughly hewn by Arthur, her crown of frozen diamonds.

The youngest Braginski never spoke to Arthur and generally shied away from the patrons, clinging to her brother's arm, quietly watching. Arthur didn't mind, the one time he had tried to approach her for a refill and to try and chat, he had been greeted with a knife gripped in her hand and a steely gaze. He never asked her for the marmalade again.

Late nights, when Arthur's mind was wandering and the pencil in his hand was not quite his own, all three would appear upon his page. Katya was always in the middle, her brother and sister sleeping peacefully while her skilled fingers would weave together a beige scarf while behind them, a cart of hay rested, its draught horse eating from a bucket.

As warm as the scene seemed, no matter how many times Arthur had drawn it, Katya's eyes were always sad and he could never capture them right. Coming back to the present, he smiled at her, thanking quietly and dropping two sugars into the tea, stirring.

"Just you today Katya?" he asked warmly, sipping the drink, humming and taking off his glasses, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

The woman nodded, absently organising the pages on Arthur's table. "Vanya is out today with some friends," she said, peering at his sketches, as was her habit, "Natasha has her violin today."

Her fingers brushed over a sketch of herself in an elegant gown, chasing small versions of her siblings through an ornate hall. The Ukrainian was one of the few people that got to freely browse his work outside a professional setting; he trusted her.

Arthur chuckled lightly, finishing the unicorn and humming to himself. "I suppose they are starting to fly the coop," he asked, watching the woman nod, her eyes turning the shade of despair he could capture, shining slightly.

Carefully, he reached forward; pulling the drawing her fingers were resting on free from his book, offering it. "Here, it'll do you more good than it will me." He smiled and flushed hard as Katya bent over, kissing his cheek, thanking him in her native tongue before sauntering to the back, holding the drawing to her ample chest, taking care not to wrinkle it.

Minutes passed in relative silence, a small trio in the middle of the café discussing something or other, he couldn't really understand the mix of Flemish, Dutch, Luxemburgish and loud, offensive English but generally stayed quiet. From what he could glean, the tallest, lankiest one had some kind of hangover and was being reprimanded by a feisty blond with sharp green eyes while the third in the trio watched them dully, sipping his latte.

Arthur's pencil skittered across the page, a windmill, rotting and broken behind them as they sat on at a river's side, feet dipping into the water, their clothes torn. He enjoyed this version of them better; they were quieter in the picture. Sighing, he leaned back in his chair, put his glasses back on, picked up his teacup, and turned to look out the window.

_click_.

A man was standing there, a camera held to his face, obscuring most of it save for pale lips, taking a picture of the Brit. Arthur stared at him, nonplussed and quickly lifted a fist, tapping on the glass. The camera lowered slightly, covering the guilty-smile and revealing a pair of cerulean eyes blinked at him. Even without his mouth, Arthur could see the man was smiling.

"Hello," He mouthed, offering a small wave of his fingers. Arthur raised an eyebrow, putting down his tea and reaching for his pencil, sketching the man, though the image of the camera blocking the man's face- the eyes were impossible for him to quite get.

The blond man watched interestedly, smiling happily when he saw the Englishman's drawing. He tapped on the window, turning the camera around and showing the display to Arthur. There was a picture of him, bent over the sketch of the windmill. Arthur blinked at it.

Did he really look that… lost?

The man hung the camera around his shoulder, slipping a lens cap on and walking over to the front door of the café. He smiled brightly at the Englishman; cheeks pink from the cold rain outside. His short-sleeved dark-navy sweater hung baggy around his body and its low collar showed a chain and a silver cross on his chest.

"Hello monsieur, you 'ave quite a talent for drawing," the man said, making his way over to Arthur's table, a hand resting on the back of the unoccupied chair, not pulling it out to sit on it, merely resting. Without the window blocking the sound, Arthur could hear the Parisian accent on his words, curling around 'r's and ignoring 'h's.

Quietly, Arthur closed his book, placing his pencil on top and taking off his glasses. "And you have quite an eye for photography," he said, "How long have you been standing there?"

Smiling, the blond leaned against the chair, his left foot tucked behind his right ankle. Arthur took note of the tailored-leather shoes. "Only for a few minutes, I was waiting for you to start sketching again. You were watching ze others for quite some time." He hummed, lifting his camera and taking another picture as Arthur frowned slightly.

"Stop that," Arthur muttered, waving a hand at him, irritated by the sound of the shutter. The blond merely took another picture, the lips once again pulled into an amused smile. Feeling his cheeks heat up, Arthur took another sip of tea; could someone really get that much pleasure from seeing him frown?

Katya appeared, smiling; a menu in hand, apparently under the impression that this man was the friend Arthur had been saving the chair for. "Hello," she said, offering the small menu, "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"_Oui_," the photographer pulled the chair out, resting his camera on the table, "coffee please, with a little bit of cream on ze side and no sugar."

As the Ukrainian left, the man's blue eyes found Arthur again and the Brit carefully picked up his tea, purposely avoiding conversation. The man may have taken a lovely picture, but if Arthur invited everyone he had sketched for afternoon tea, the café would be perpetually filled to the brim.

The long fingers traced over the pages on Arthur's table, turning them so he could better see the fantastical drawings, graceful creatures and long-forgotten locales laid out in pencil. Arthur resisted the urge to spill hot tea over his wandering hands. The man had shown him photos, personal work, and obviously had some kind of artistic soul or equivalent measuring of respect for the arts. So, Arthur let him look.

"These are fantastic," the man said as Katya placed the coffee in front of him, the creamer resting beside it, thanking her and handing over the menu, "And nothing thank you." Smiling, a hand brushing Arthur's arm comfortingly, the woman walked away, returning to the back where Ivan peered at the pair curiously before being jerked behind the wall that separated the main dining room from the kitchen, Katya's hand around his scarf.

Arthur nodded slightly, picking up the loose sketches, starting to put them in his sketchbook, careful to not bend the edges. The sketch of the Frenchman he left on the table, looking up at the man: his pencil poised under the sketch, ready to title it.

"Name?"

Blue eyes blinked at him. "Uh, Francis. Francis Bonnefoy." he offered a hand with a crumpled business card between his fingers. Arthur took it, looking over, seeing nothing more than the name, occupation and a phone number in elegant, black font. Peering at the name, Arthur wrote it below the drawing of Francis, signing it before handing it over, storing the card into his day planner.

Taking the drawing, Francis smiled softly, frowning at the signature. "Arthur… Kirkland?" he questioned, looking up.

"Yes," Arthur said, standing up, slipping his bag over his shoulder, wrapping a scarf loosely around his neck, "you can read my signature?"

But the bright eyes were staring at him intently, a smile spreading across his face, wider than before. "_Ze_ Arthur Kirkland?" he asked, holding the sketch as if it were a precious artefact from days long passed, "you 'ad zat fantastic exhibition at ze Serpentine Gallery! I loved your faerie illustrations, simply stunning, ze level of detail, their eyes, oh it was fantastic!"

By now, the eyes of the other three patrons of the teashop were looking around and Arthur had bowed his head, putting his back to them, half-glaring down at the Frenchman, clutching the strap of his bag nervously.

"Could you hush about that please?" Arthur demanded quietly, taking his jacket from the back of Francis' chair, pulling it on, and struggling with it due to his messenger bag. He slipped out a wallet, placing money on the table before fiddling with his collar.

While he struggled, Francis had stood up, holding his camera, watching the Englishman eagerly, and still smiling widely. "I want to commission you," he said quickly, following Arthur, slamming a few pounds on the table, calling over a thank you to Katya.

The rain had lessened slightly, though Arthur still did not want to spend more time than necessary walking without cover. He started down up Wright's Lane, towards Kensington High Street, sinking low in his coat and trying to ignore the splash of footsteps behind him.

The high buildings that ran along the streets were in washed colours due to the rain and the cars that littered the few available parking spaces did nothing to alleviate the toneless lane. Even the windows were filled with bare and inoffensive blinds, hiding the store-bought insides. The only colour came from the rose-covered vines curled around the balcony, which Arthur was leaving further behind with each footstep.

"Please monsieur," Francis said, feet moving backwards and he walked in front of Arthur, "listen, I will pay you-" he barely got out of the way as Arthur made a sharp turn left.

The Brit started down a small road that turned again to the left, revealing the rest of Iverna Garden. About halfway down the street, stopping at door with the number 'twenty-three' in brass hung, Arthur looked back to see if the Frenchman had followed, his breath slightly laboured from his sped up walk.

Francis stood there, smiling widely, his hair damp and hanging around his face. He was still holding onto his camera, a protecting hand around the lens. The paper had been carefully folded around the drawing, tucked into his front pocket and Arthur could see the edge of the pencilled-camera.

Leaning against the door, Arthur grumbled and reached into his bag, pulling out his scheduler. "I'm behind at the moment," he said, opening it and flipping to that month, which was filled with suspiciously blank spots, "You'd have to wait a week before I could start, and even then we'd need a planning session, you'd have to wait for sketches and then there's inking and the actual final product-"

Francis smiled at his with those stunning eyes again and the words that were spilling out of his mouth came to a halt. "Zat's fine," Francis' fingers trailed over the book, travelling over days, "I will pay you whatever you want… I believe you can start in… two days?"

A sigh escaped the artist's lips and he closed the book, carefully placing it back in his bag, making no move to grab his keys. "If I say no… Are you just going to stand outside my door and wait until I come out?"

"_Oui_." It scared Arthur that the Frenchman seemed completely serious.

"Alright. I'll design whatever you want." Arthur rubbed his face, "What are you looking for?"

The Frenchman grinned, winking and pressing a finger to his lips. "Ah-ah~ Now that I 'ave your attention and house, I will not let you out of my grasp. Tomorrow I will call you and give you details." He smiled, starting to back away, "_Au revoir _then Kirkland! I will see you tomorrow!"

Frowning, utterly perplexed, Arthur had to force himself not to follow the blond. "Can I at least get a hint?" he said, slightly pleading. Knowing he had to design something but not an exact _thing_ would keep him up half the night.

"Something for a turtle!" Francis called, starting to jog away, waving. The Brit watched him until he disappeared down the street, the vines and leaves from the balcony apparently swallowing him up.

Not even reaching for his keys, Arthur pulled out his sketchbook, crouching near his door, propping the book on his knees. Mumbling to himself quietly, he started with the finger pressed against soft rosy and smiling lips, the strands of hair splayed across his forehead and the angle of the stubble-ridden jaw. Then he reached the eyes and managed to capture the closed one's curled eyelashes but paused at the bright blue one.

The side of Francis' face remained blank so long that the rain began softening the edges of his graphite. Arthur stared, his pencil poised and ready, trying to imagine the eye again, trying to capture the emotions there. Huffing to himself, Arthur slammed the book shut. He reached into his pocket, not bothering to put the sketchbook away, fumbling the keys out and dropping them in frustration.

Damn those blue eyes.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Time for a brand new story. This one will be around the same length as Two Weeks and hopefully will keep up with it's tradition of updating once a week but-**  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

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_Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy._ -Sigmund Freud

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Once again, the city of London was covered in rain. Arthur's feet took him along Kensington Palace Garden walkway, hunched against the light rainfall. His normal route cut along Hyde Park, past the Palace residing within the bounds of Hyde Park, white against the emerald of the trees. Normally, the Brit would stop and take his time to look over the details of the palace, to memorise it and replicate it within his sketchbook again but he had no time.

He was late and Dr. Edelstein did not approve of unpunctuality.

The Broad Walk left the park and led him to Bayswater Road and through the packed streets of tourists, Londoners just trying to make it to the Tube in time for work and traffic. Arthur slipped easily through the crowd, knowing how to move, how to blend, how to exist within the people are never be noticed. The artist could observe and that made him invisible.

Dr. Edelstein's office was actually a three-story townhouse that blended into the large hotel to it's right, but placed on the end of the row of brick-buildings with the greying trim, giving way to much a much newer brown apartment building.

The top-most floor was not a full building but only a roof and through the window Arthur could see shadows moving about as he crossed the street. Below that, the second-floor's window was open slightly, allowing the light-yellow curtains to waver in the wind, the small window box filled with creamy-white Edelweiss.

Hurrying to the front door, Arthur's finger hit the call button three times. Once to let them know he was there, twice to let them know he wasn't just a wit or a lost tourist looking to get into the hotel and thrice just for his own amusement. He waited patiently outside, shaking his head slightly to free the shaggy blond hair of rain.

A tall woman greeted him at the door; a white apron tied around her back accentuated her figure. She smiled warmly at Arthur, tucking a long piece of hair behind her ear, touching the flower weaved in the strands, making sure it was still there. Rolling her sleeves back again and fixing her ponytail, she stepped back, inviting him in, her dark green eyes sparkling.

"It smells lovely in here Elizaveta," Arthur greeted, stepping inside, taking a deep breath of the warm air that filled the entranceway tinted with cinnamon, vanilla and whatever else the Hungarian placed in her bakery. The outside of the townhouse was deceptively small and inside it was rather large (not that a little designing from Elizaveta favourite Swedish interior designer and another friend of Arthur's didn't help).

The wood panelling was of warm rosewood as she led him to the kitchen -where once again he had to take another appreciative sniff of the air- and sat him down in the small waiting area off to the side comprised of a rustic leather couch and a coffee table covered an assortment of fairly recent magazines. The home itself was earthy and cosy, with velvety gem tones and bright patches of colour here and there, allowing for an elegant, yet well-loved look.

Taking his coat and hanging it up, Elizaveta returned to the kitchen; Arthur was pleased to note that she had already set out the kettle and teapot. As per his custom, he took note of the flower weaved into her hair. A carnation, colour stuck between skin and red, swaying with every move she made around the kitchen.

"I'm glad you think so," she said, bending down to peer through the small window of her oven, "it's a new recipe I'm trying, some kind of bread." The Brit's smile only grew. A new recipe meant that he would be taking a sample home and not living off the local Chinese restaurant for one more night.

While the woman busied herself around the kitchen, Arthur let his eyes glance outside the large windows to the sprawling backyard. While it technically belonged to the hotel next-door, the couple in the townhouse had made an agreement that allowed them full-access for the mere price of Dr. Edelstein's piano talents at wedding receptions.

Relaxing into the leather, Arthur rubbed his face, his mind beginning to wander on it's own as it often did when without a pencil in hand and paper in front of him. Elizaveta's quiet singing was not helping, washing over him in calm waves.

It was Monday and Arthur had been shocked to receive a call from the Austrian doctor asking him to come in; they hadn't had a Monday session since four-months past. What did the man want? To talk about Alfred for the hundredth time in the past three years? Perhaps, and here Arthur had thought he had had troubles moving-on.

Turning slightly in his seat, Arthur cleared his throat. "Elizaveta?" he asked, her quiet song stopping, "Do you have any inkling as to why Edelstein asked me to come here today?"

Elizaveta hummed in thoughtfulness, taking a set of oven mittens from a hook on the edge of her cabinets and slipping them on. "I haven't heard anything," she said, opening the oven and drawing out the tray of freshly risen bread. The smell of spices infused the air, increasing the already compelling aroma ten-fold, causing Arthur to lose his train of thought for a moment.

"He didn't mention anything in particular, but he said it would be a short session," her voice suddenly turned steely and Arthur watched her hands tighten on the bread tray, "it has to be, we have Tino and Berwald over as guests for dinner _tonight_ and he promised no patients today." There was a definite tone of bitterness and Arthur was glad it was not directed at him.

He was glad to hear a voice calling from the upstairs. "Elizaveta? Can you send Arthur up please?" The Brit waved a hand at her quietly, murmuring that he could find his own way, leaving the kitchen and starting to climb the stairs, going past the second floor, knowing the bedrooms were there and pausing at the door at the very top of the stairs.

Knocking as he let himself in, Arthur smiled. Dr. Edelstein's office was comforting as always, the walls covered in tomes save for the window that overlooked the busy Baywater Road below. A piano was tucked into corner, allowing the light to spill onto its keys, but its player was not at the bench, rather behind a desk.

Always as proper as the orderly books, the desk's papers were centred and organised and the frame of the picture on the right corner shone no matter sunlight or the full glow of the rain. This was one thing Arthur also enjoyed about the Austrian, no matter how frustrated he got, whether with patients, life or his family -but never his wife- he was always organised.

The brunet behind the desk was well put together with tailored shirts, neatly combed hair and sharp-rimmed glasses that hid his even sharper deep lavender eyes. Whenever the Austrian got out of sorts, Arthur noticed that a single piece of hair had a peculiar habit of standing on end, curling up away from the rest.

His wife often teased him, saying that this piece of hair was all the suppressed rebelliousness the doctor had, concentrated into this curl of hair. He never complained when she toyed with it, merely letting her tug and tease, the twitch of his lips either of annoyance or an attempt to keep down a smile.

Arthur enjoyed drawing them together, usually in Austen-esque settings of trimmed courtyards, horseback rides in the countryside and regal cottages. The two fit perfectly; Edelstein an aloof but wistfully dark aristocrat to have his heart charmed by the dear Elizaveta as the poor, biting and irresistibly enchanting woman.

"Ah, Arthur," the doctor stood up, putting his pen down and closing the small journal he had been scribbling in. With a gesturing of his hand, he gave a tight-lipped smile, "Please, have a seat, we only need to talk for a moment."

Taking a seat in the small chaise of worn leather, Arthur made sure not to lie down, fearing that this would turn into a session and he thought it better to stay away or face the repercussions of an angry wife's wrath. He touched the warm auburn blanket that was draped over it, smoothing it out while the Austrian took seat in front of him, legs crossing.

The Brit returned the smile softly. "So, Dr. Edelstein, what made you call? I'm doing really great right now, I even went a few days without thinking about him."

"I know, I know," Roderich's fingers intertwined over his leg, holding it close, "I'm really impressed with your progress and since we're seeing less-and-less of each other, I'd like to ask you to do something for me."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, watching as the brunet stood, walking to his desk, opening a drawer and puling out a small leather book, about half the size of his sketchbook. Walking over, he offered it to the artist. "I want you to keep a journal."

Taking the book and opening it, letting the pages flick by his thumb, Arthur looked up at him, frowning. "Roderich," the use of his first name felt odd, "why? I don't understand I'm doing really well, seriously. I think I'm even going to start dating again."

Roderich sat down again. "Arthur, I am impressed with your progress, but I just want to keep an eye on you and reduce our sessions to just one day a week. Think you can handle that?

"How much do you want me to write?" Arthur asked.

"One entry a day, nothing more. And more than one word, no slacking off." The Austrian stood up and Arthur did the same. "I will see you on Thursday."

When they arrived downstairs, Elizaveta had changed into a simple but elegant dress, humming as she prepared dinner around the kitchen. Spotting the two, she picked up a small cloth bundle, handing it to Arthur after he tucked the journal away in his bag. He hummed, smelling deeply and thanking her.

Elizaveta merely waved a hand. "No problem Arthur," she said, leading him to the door while Roderich hung back, offering a small nod as a goodbye, "please, enjoy and you know our door is always open to you, sessions aside."

The Brit smiled at her, cheeks glowing pink as she kissed them. Outside in the rain, Arthur took special care not to let the bread get too wet as he hurried once again through the green park, retracing his steps past the Palace and down Kensington's high street.

Night had started to fall on the city so that his path was lit by lanterns and the glow of the setting sun. Arthur huddled deeper into his coat, clutching the bread for warmth, wishing desperately that he were back at the Austrian's house, having dinner and enjoying the glow of company instead of the cold city.

Rounding the corner into Iverna Gardens, Arthur paused, seeing a figure huddled near his door, hiding under an umbrella; the bright red fabric almost an abomination against the dull colours of the street. Upon closer inspection, he recognised the Frenchman's figure and felt his face scrunch up slightly. And here he thought that he was going to get out of designing something for said "turtle".

"Ah, Arthur!" Francis' voice echoed down the street as he waved at the Brit as best he could, arms weighed down by papers, "I 'ave come to drop off a gift for you!"

The artist approached warily, eyes sliding over the papers. "What exactly is all this?" he asked.

Francis scrambled to find a manila envelope, holding it out to Arthur. "That is some background information and the rest of this is detailed blueprints of my 'ome." He held out the rolls of papers, dropping them into Arthur's grasp, causing the Brit to almost drop all of them and the keys he had been getting out.

"What exactly is all this for?" Arthur asked, a little ticked, "You haven't even told me what I'm trying to design!"

The Frenchman grinned at him and Arthur growled as he took a picture. "I want you to design me an aquarium."

Immediately, Arthur dropped all pretence of professionalism. "A bloody fish tank? You must be kidding. I did not go to the Royal College of Design for this-" His breath caught.

A finger hand found it's way onto his babbling lips, hushing him. Suddenly, Francis was much too close and Arthur found that the rain had stopped now that he was under the Frenchman's umbrella. He automatically gripped the papers close to his chest, staring wide-eyed at the Frenchman who smiled softly at him, letting his finger fall.

"I simple wish for you to look over the envelope." He murmured, "That is it. Nothing more, then you decide if you want to design it."

Arthur's eyes looked down at the dark paper, then back up at Francis. "Would you like to come in for coffee?" he blurted out.

Rain fell around them as Arthur's heart lodged itself somewhere in his throat and Francis' blue eyes -those accursed blue eyes- continued to bore into him. Everything around him seemed very colourful for a few moments. The orange tint of the streetlights, the bright ruby of the Beamer parked down the way and those stunning eyes, every-shade and yet his find couldn't fix on them and the more he stared, the harder they became to read.

Suddenly, the rain was pouring on him again and the red umbrella was walking away. "Sorry Arthur," Francis called, looking over his shoulder, "but I 'ave a date tonight that I cannot miss. _Au revoir Sourcils_!" With that, and what Arthur would have sworn to be a wink, the Frenchman was gone.

It took a moment for Arthur's wits to gather themselves and for the flush in his cheeks to die down. He fumbled open his front door, unable to help but look back into the dark street, a small, unknown part of him washing to see the red umbrella there.

Instead, his eyes fell on tiny pinpricks of light floating around his street. He took a moment to stare at them, rubbing his eyes once or twice to make sure it wasn't just a trick of the light as they could easily be mistaken for airplanes or stars. But Arthur knew what they were and it brought the smallest of smiles to his face. Fireflies.

* * *

_I don't know about you Artie, but I think I've fallen in love with you_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

_Happiness seems made to be shared._ Pierre Corneille

* * *

The water dripping onto the shell of Arthur's ear sounded rain. He shifted in his shower, rubbing the conditioner out of the shaggy blond, thinking vaguely that he would need a haircut soon. As his fingers slipped over the knob of the shower, the sound of the storm didn't stop, a small window above his showerhead streaked with water.

Crawling out and rubbing a soft towel over himself and through his hair until it was a mess of damp spikes, Arthur hung it up carefully, brushing his teeth only half-heartedly, as one usually did when they knew they would be receiving no company that day.

He opened the door of his bathroom, shivering at the coolness of the room, glad the window directly across from him opened onto the back of a large courtyard of a church which meant that no one would see him unless they stood on the roof of the abbey and squinted.

Feet slapping against the hardwood floor of his rather small bedroom, Arthur straightened the sheets of his bed, smoothing out the green comforter and fluffing the pillows. Glancing at the clock on his dresser and confirming that he has not spent hours in the shower, he walked over and pulled on work clothes (a t-shirt, sweater, jeans and very large fluffy socks).

Arthur paused after pulling his socks on before walking back to grab his glasses from his bedside table off the novel outlining the dead-end world of junkies in Edinburgh. He stepped out of the bedroom, briefly glancing at his sitting room before take the door right beside the bedroom one and slipping inside.

Hitting on the lights and illuminating the drawing board in the corner of his room, Arthur next hit the button of the stereo system near the door, listening to the whirl of his iPod as it clicked on and the soft song of a woman came through the speakers surrounding the room.

The Brit hummed along absently, walking across the small carpet he had in the middle of the room, past the wall bookshelves filled with art books, fairytales and travel guides. Above the stereo were the awards he had been given over the years along with a few signed copies of prints he had traded for.

The other wall had a large window, allowing the light form the outside to spill in and gave Arthur a very good view of the small abbey and the Sunday school children that would play football within the gated courtyard.

Dedicated to his drawing board and sketches, the final wall was covered in designs of creatures, places and items that Arthur had done and there was a clear progression from the first drawing to the latest ones; new places, new people and new feelings. It was a very clear map of Arthur's internal life and if anyone ever had the privilege of seeing them, they would learn more about the small British man from five minutes of browsing than five years of speaking to him.

The manila envelope and blueprints were on a small side table beside the drawing board. He had already spread the layout of the house out the previous night, keeping the edges down with a mixture of paperweights, rocks taken from beaches across the world and whatever crystals people got him when they got the impression that he believed in the mumbo-jumbo about magic crystals. He did have a very firm belief in magic, just not the kind with transferring power through the earth's sediments.

Looking over the floor plans again, Arthur reached over to a small shelf and turned on the kettle there -one of two in his home- glad that he had filled it last night and waited patiently for it to heat up.

The steaming brew now sitting beside the blueprint of Francis' living room, Arthur took his seat at his drawing board and quietly picked up the manila envelope. His hands tugged with the strings and undid it. His fingers slipped inside and pulled out the contents, spreading them out on the table to his left. There wasn't much inside; a few photos, a print-out and some kind of drawing.

Arthur put on his glasses before starting to pick through the pile, starting with the printout. His eyes scanned lazily over the text, which described some breed of turtle in detail and all Arthur could wonder was why in the world someone would want to own such a stunningly boring animal.

Tacking the picture of the creature up above his desk anyway, his fingers picked up the three pictures next instead. The first was of a very nice and creamy living room and Arthur squinted, able to see the outskirts of a park through the windows in the photo. So Francis lived near a garden, but which one? Arthur set aside that question with the picture, glancing at the next one.

There was a tanned man with curled chocolate hair and a goofy grin in the next one. He was holding up a turtle happily, green eyes sparkling at the camera and Arthur's instincts told him that he was staring at the source of Francis' date. He smiled back at the man, shaking his head. What spelt true love like getting your other-half an aquarium for his dull turtle?

Arthur turned over the picture and found something written on the back in a loopy and elegantly messy handwriting he could only associate with the Frenchman. _Antonio + Philip à le Jardin des Tuileries_. He looked back at the picture for a moment, frowning. Now was the turtle Philip and the man Antonio or the other way around? Again, Arthur saved the question for another time.

The final picture caught his attention because it didn't belong with the other two. It was of Francis, bundled up in a very cosy scarf, fingerless gloves closed around a small cup filled to the brim with a warm-looking drink. The blue eyes were looking outside the small café's window to the snow-filled street, half a reflection in the glass. A smile played at the rosy lips.

It was a few seconds before Arthur realised he was staring.

Carefully, he placed the final photo within the front page of his journal, closing it. Now turning to take up the final drawing, he had to pause and quirk his head in utter shock. Arthur had been to many elementary schools, showing off his drawings to children, telling them they had possibilities in the world of graphic design while knowing that only one or two would actually make it. These were lies he didn't mind telling, because as he told them, at that moment in their lives, the children were ready to believe and do anything. He liked that about kids.

The drawing Francis had placed in the envelope reminded him of the drawings these children would make. With what appeared to be only two colours of pencil crayons (from what he could tell 'Cosmic Cobalt' and 'Shamrock') Francis had drawn the crude outline of an aquarium with a small green blob in the middle.

A smile couldn't help but play at the Brit's lips. The Frenchman had given off at a refined and mature air, and yet here was evidence that deep down inside that tall and charming body was just a giggling and immature child. Tracing his fingers along the lines of the aquarium and the splodge of a turtle, Arthur carefully placed the drawing beside the printout.

Minutes passed in silence as he watched the steam roll off the top of his tea and the rain hitting his window. Reaching over, Arthur picked up his journal and quietly opened to the front page, past the photo of the Frenchman, and picked up his pen. Placing the date in the top left corner, Arthur's pen posed over the lines of the page, then he wrote a single sentence.

_The first time I realised that Alfred loved me was exactly five years ago._

He paused, looking at the line, swallowing and blinking. That wasn't as hard as he was expecting. Carefully, he let his pen glance over the details while his mind slowly drifted back to that warm July dusk.

* * *

Alfred was bright in this memory. The world around simply paled in comparison, even the sun fell pray to his wide grin, of sunshine, glee and absolute contagious warmth. He never walked in step with others, a beat of his own drum, his own path and never quite straight. He fascinated Arthur, and so Arthur followed, his own straight path, a calm and determined and yet individual path. He enjoyed it immensely when their two paths would cross and they'd bump shoulders.

So their shoulders bumped. "So when are you going back to America?"

"Don't know yet." Alfred said. He let their shoulders keep touching. Beside his blue eyes even the sky seemed grey.

Arthur snorted, looking around Kensington Park. He spotted the castle and promptly plopped down in the grass, sketching it. "You need to go back one day. I mean, what about your brother?"

Sitting down beside him, Alfred shrugged. Their shoulders touched again, this time the weight of the American on the small Brit. He grumbled slightly, moving and jostling until they fit together. Which was with Arthur's back half leaning on the broad chest, Alfred's hand resting in the grass near his side. The thumb teased the belt loop of the tight jeans. Arthur ignored it.

"Matthew will be fine." He said, peering at the iron gates appearing under Arthur's pencil. "He's got Feliks and Tor after all and they take way better care of him than I do."

The Brit looked up at him, nuzzling closer. It was a little chilly and Alfred was so warm. "You know what?"

Alfred arched an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Arthur looked back down at his sketch, humming. "You should go get me some tea. While I think of some more reasons you shouldn't stay here in… What did you call it again?"

Standing, Alfred laughed. "Limey-Land." He said, looking down at Arthur.

"Right, you get tea and I'll think of more reasons you shouldn't continue to plague 'Limey-Land' with your presence." Arthur continued to sketch while Alfred did as he was told.

By the time a small cup of tea was dangled in front of him and he felt the dog tags that Alfred insisted of wearing bump into his head along with the silver cross among the name of the American's grandfather, Arthur had already finished most of the drawing. He put the pencil down, taking the tea and humming, letting the coils of the tea brush his face.

Alfred didn't sit down, so Arthur looked back up. "Thought about anymore reasons why I shouldn't stay?"

"Yes, I have," Arthur said, blinking at his upside-down face. "You never make my tea right in the morning. Which I think I am entitled to after spending the night in bed with you."

The American smiled and Arthur was glad the grin no longer threw him off-guard. His fingers absently tugged and curled into the chains, running over the cross with his thumb. "You're just grumpy in the mornings because I am so good in bed and you want more before I have to go to work."

Arthur's cheeks turned pink and he sipped his tea, looking back at the palace. He felt Alfred's knees in his back, lightly rubbing, fitting perfectly in his hunched shoulder blades. He relaxed.

"You really don't get it, do you Artie?" Came Alfred's voice from above him again and he tried to catch the blue eyes but they were looking away.

"Get what?" Arthur breathed.

"I'm staying. Here in England." The Brit barely registered the use of his land's proper name.

A pause. Arthur took the time to drink his tea, to sketch a few more details of the palace, of the windows and the trees beside it. "Idiot." He sighed, once again leaning his head back, "You're going to need a place to stay. And since you're utterly helpless on your own, you'll just have to stay with me."

Alfred bent over and kissed him. Upside-down kisses weren't really the most elegant of gestures and Arthur blinked at his chin before reaching up his hands and holding the American's face lightly, tips of his fingers curling under his jaw. The cool dog tags tangled in his messy hair.

Finally, Alfred pulled back just enough to speak. "That's what I wanted to hear." He murmured.

Arthur's drawing of the palace lay to one side, finished after almost an entire hour, while he was curled with Alfred, lying in the grass, just outside the halo of the streetlight that ran along the paths of Kensington Garden. The American's arm was a very good pillow.

By now, the large leather jacket that Alfred insisted on wearing was around his shoulders and he held it close, looking up at the starless sky absently, laughing as Alfred pretended the planes that flew in and out of Heathrow were first stars that simply had too many wishes and promptly disappeared. Arthur hand one hand on his chest, clutching to the t-shirt Alfred had on while his head rested in the crook of his arm.

He enjoyed how they never quite seemed to fit together.

"Hey…" Alfred's free hand raised and he pointed towards a small cluster of bushes. Arthur had to sit up on his arms to see. Small pinpricks of lights floated around the leaves. "And no, they're not faeries." The blue-eyed man teased.

The Brit frowned. "I know that," he snapped, poking the American's stomach and smirking at him. "But since you're obviously much more experienced than I am, why don't you tell me what they are?"

Alfred sat up as well, leaning against the Brit, nose tracing along his neck and lips finding his ear. He breathed the word and Arthur looked back at him, head quirked for a moment. The blue eyes were warm in the light of the small faeries. Arthur's fingers traced down his cheek and he pressed their lips together again.

_Even though Alfred told me they were fireflies; in my mind they were faeries. Ones that belonged only to us._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

**

* * *

**

_Experience is one thing you can't get for nothing_. -Oscar Wilde

* * *

When Arthur got into a design project, he didn't leave his apartment until he was finished. Tea and called-in Chinese food became his main meal and he barely left the drawing room, often passing out on the board, surrounded by crumpled up drafts and scribbles. He enjoyed this time more than anything else, as all he had to do was allow his mind to drift and not have to listen to others for days on end.

He tried to keep up with Roderich's request to keep writing and managed to write a fair bit every day while he was waiting for his tea to brew or while he was eating his ginger beef and fried rice. The entries wouldn't be deep insights into his soul but mostly just harmless entries about vague feelings and whatever else piqued his interest that day.

Roderich could wait for the deeper moments when Arthur wasn't busy trying to design an aquarium for a turtle.

It was a good four days of solid work and poor sleep before Arthur had a design that he loved. He had really thought that envisioning an aquarium was going to be impossible for a house he hand never entered and only had vague blueprints for would be easy, but here in front of him was a work of art.

Immediately needing to get it approved by the Frenchman, he seized his phone -which had lay nearby for the entirety of the four days on silent- and dialled his number, then took the time to glance at the clock.

**8:31**

He hoped that the Frenchman was a morning person.

The phone clicked open and Arthur listened to the shuffling of sheets, quiet mumblings of Spanish, a light chuckled from Francis as the bedsprings whined again, as if he had been pulled back onto the bed. Feeling his cheeks heat up slightly, Arthur tried to not feel like a voyeur and quietly cleared his throat.

Finally, there was an answer. "Bonjour?" came Francis' mumbled and grumbled tone.

"It's Arthur." The Brit said quickly, "I'm sorry for calling so early but-"

There was a small noise of delight from the other side of the line and Arthur stared. "It is finished then!" Francis' smile could be heard in every word, "I-I will be over within the hour! Adieu Arthur!"

Line going dead, Arthur stared at the phone, carefully hanging up and getting ready. True to his word, within the hour, his doorbell rang and Francis was there, absolutely beaming, though his hair was a little messy and he had slight rings under his eyes, but beside the Englishman's rumpled hair and hooded eyes.

Leading Francis into his workplace, Arthur showed him the sketch. It was simple and uninked for now with rough shadows and proportions but it definitely more than got the point across. Francis' couch and chairs were positioned around a glass table on the oak hardwood floors. Light filtered in from large windows whose sills were filled with indistinguishable knickknacks (the Frenchman seemed like a curio person to Arthur).

Behind the ashen chairs and couch were two pieces of flat glass supported by two metal polls descending from the roof, inside of them were fish, rocks and that plastic kelp people tended to stick in there. They would act as partitions while also allowing a stunning amount of light into the room. Arthur had reworked it so that the tanks were thicker and would allow the turtle more room.

Eagerly, Arthur watched as Francis looked over the design carefully, silent for the first minute or so, chewing on his lip, a long finger tracing along the couches, then windows and then the aquariums themselves. Sitting back in the stool, he slowly, nodded, giving Arthur a warm and approving smile.

"It is very good," he said, "but there is one problem."

Arthur blinked. "What! It's bloody perfect! Are you dense or something? Look at that detail-" The Brit's finger stabbed at the drawing, "-did you even look at the chuffing thing! This is stunning! Brilliance! Pure design mastery!"

His chest was heaving by the time he was finished. And that damned bloody Frenchman was just smirking at him as if nothing at all was wrong with his outburst. His tall finger brushed along Arthur's, resting on the sill of the window.

"I was merely going to say that my sills are quite bare, I do not 'ave very much on them." he prodded the Brit's cheek, laughing at him. When was the last time Arthur had been laughed at? "You are very cute when you are angry."

Feeling his cheeks heat up, Arthur quickly rubbed at them still grumbling. When the soft laughter had died down, Francis shifted his chair closer to the centre of the table (closer to Arthur) so he could get a better look. The Brit allowed this, but at the same time picked up an eraser, starting to scrub at the knick-knacks.

The Frenchman watched him, as if each angry and almost violent pass of the rubber was fascinating. "There are many inaccuracies 'ere…" he said, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder as he leaned forward, fingers pointing at things (the pillow on the couch, the half-full coffee cups on the glass table, the paintings on the wall) "This will simply not do at all."

Arthur stared at him and considered how hard it would be to stick the small eraser up the pointy nose. Surely not that hard. "Well I will just have to start all-bloody-over again," he managed through grit teeth, the eraser instead getting thrown to a side-table as an alternative to getting lodged in the nostril.

Then, there was that laugh again. "I 'ave a much better solution."

"Oh?" Arthur practically snorted. Maybe he wanted the thing on the moon now, or maybe there were two turtles or maybe, knowing the Frenchman, this was all just some huge prank and Arthur had wasted four days of his precious life on an aquarium for a turtle that didn't exist.

"You will just 'ave to come to my house for coffee and draw everything from there." Feeling the fingers press into his shoulder before letting go, Arthur turned very slowly to blink at the photographer.

He appeared serious, but as always there was a smile at his lips and those eyes were anything but joking, filled with delight and Arthur suddenly realised that the delight had stemmed from _his_ work. He had made the Frenchman look so pleased and content. All at once he wanted to keep drawing and crumple up the design and run-away until he couldn't remember anything.

If Arthur had been more attune with his feelings, or perhaps if Francis hadn't been standing up or maybe even if he hadn't been so lost within his own self, he would've realised that these feelings, stupid and wretched as they were, were the beginning of something he had only shared with one other person.

Instead, his mouth opened, closed, something akin to a fish out of water while Francis merely turned his gaze to the wall of designs, to Arthur's life on paper. The thin eyebrows contracted and he reached out a hand, as if to touched one of the drawing (this one of a young man, with messy hair, curled on a couch, a blanket draped over him, glasses askew and face peaceful).

Arthur's hand moved so fast that Francis heard the slap before he felt the stinging whip on his wrist. The Brit watched as the blue eyes looked at the reddening skin, then to his own face, confusion in almost every line of the angled face. Arthur realised that his breathing was slightly laboured.

"_Désolé_." Came the somewhat meek reply.

Arthur cleared his throat. "I-It's… quite alright." He managed, rubbing his face, "Sorry, I'm a bit buggered at the moment, I-I really didn't mean to, it's just the drawings and you were going to touch that one-"

Smiling, Francis shook his head, rubbing his wrist absently, still looking at the drawing and ignoring Arthur's ramblings. "Who is 'e?"

"Who is… he?"

Francis nodded. "Ze boy in the picture. 'E is quite handsome."

There was a moment where Arthur had to think. Who was that boy there, curled up on his couch after a long day at work, so exhausted that he was still and Arthur actually had the time to sketch every detail of him, to preserve in that one moment everything that was and would be of-

"Alfred. Alfred F. Jones." Arthur said quietly, "An old mate of mine, well, more than that… But he went back to America and, well, he never came back. Off with some slag in a trailer-park."

Francis nodded. "Zat is a shame, 'e looks like quite ze charming young man."

The Brit slowly started to stand, looking at the drawing as if seeing it for the first time. "Charming is a good word."

What was this feeling boiling inside of him? He must've seen this drawing a thousand times in the last few years. What suddenly was making it feel fresh and raw? Yet, it much too early to work through feelings and Arthur was much too busy with leading Francis out of his drawing room, down the stairs to the bottom landing and opening the door while the Frenchman slipped on expensive leather boots.

"I will see you at my 'ome then?" The Frenchman asked as he passed over the threshold of the Brit's home and into the cool street outside. "Ze address in on ze blueprints but I am sure that you would find me if you really needed to."

Arthur leaned on the door's frame, watching Francis until he slunk around a corner and was gone. After that, he decided that some laundry wouldn't hurt, indeed wearing the same t-shirt, jeans and sweater for four days in a row did nothing for one's smell or appearance.

Opening the small cupboard within his design room that held a rundown old washer and drying, Arthur stripped down to nothing, pulling on pyjama bottoms. As the washer rumbled and tumbled away, plastering the clothes to it's round sides, he cleaned up his room, picking up all the unused sketches and designs and placing them in the bin.

Finally he sat down on his chair, slowly picking away at all the details that Francis had deemed inaccurate. By the time this was gone, the wash was done and now all that filled his apartment was the wheezing and breathing of the dryer.

Lazily, Arthur reached over, picking up his journal and flipping to an empty page, fingers picking up his pen. He glanced at the drawing one last time then immediately started to write, slowly and laboured at first before losing himself in the words.

I didn't actually meet Alfred first; I met his brother, Matthew Williams at my job. We got to talking, he was looking for someone to design something, I was able and we got to talking over the phone more often than not. Finally, I finished the designs and I invited Matthew to come stay over, but he said no.

Matthew was afraid of flying. Go figure, but he was a rather demure kind of bloke, and I was more amused than shocked. In his place, he was going to send his brother, Alfred, whom he had mentioned once or twice.

Picking up Alfred at the airport was, again, one of those moments I can mark in my life that absolutely changed everything. Not like, mind-shatter change where I suddenly decided to go find God and become a priest, but the kind that makes your spine tingle and your fingers itch. Where you can just feel the world shift.

There he was, nothing like the other people coming off the plane. Bright would be the best word I could find. I had been sitting, waiting there, merely doodling as I usually did while people watching, and then saw Alfred and within a moment, he was on my page.

Now, Alfred was loud, annoying, a terrible flatmate, an absolute slob and because of that, because he wasn't anything like me, or people I knew and had associated with, I found myself drawn to him.

Arthur paused for a moment -his mind catching somewhat of a pun- and looked up at the drawings on the wall. He frowned, standing and starting to shift them aside. And there it was, buried under a few other sketches of exhausted-looking pilots and stewardesses running for their planes, was Alfred.

That cowlick, the jacket, the cocky walk and the even more swaggering grin. The Brit traced a finger down the line of his body. "I hope you're happy with her," he mumbled, "I bet she's got a great smile, and a better ass… not much a brain. Bet she's an idiot… For falling in love with you."

He sighed. "Only idiots fall in love."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

_As I grow to understand life less and less; I grow to love it more and more_. -Jules Renard

* * *

The tiny Chinese place that Arthur often stopped by is not the traditional of places. No, not with the shiny dragons made of paper on the wall, the lanterns hanging from the ceiling nor the tiny cat with the golden bell around his neck, a paw up in greeting. Indeed, the moment he goes there he always feels like he's somehow found a portal to Beijing. It was also the inspiration for many of his drawings, indeed many of his sketchbooks filled with the curled clouds of the Oriental designs along with waves and the casual mixture of new and old; the balance of a deep and ancient culture merging with the fast-paced new years.

He pushed by the cloth hanging over the ceiling, peeking inside, smiling. The bar on the opposite side of the room looked right over the busy kitchen while the mismatched tables were only littered with a few people, leaning over their bright and loaded plates attempting to talk over the clatter of the kitchen, the murmur of the TV and the rain outside all while using the chopsticks to feed themselves

Indeed _No Forks_ was very loyal to its name.

Approaching the bar just off the kitchen where two young men were already sitting -one with a large medical textbook in his lap, the other seeming to be where most of the noise was coming from as he complained to the chef working behind the bar who had a wok in one hand, the ladle in his right making reprimanding motions at the wailing and moaning boy.

Arthur plopped down next to the quiet boy. Quiet as the boy was, he did carry a certain presence about him, something in those dark eyes that made him entirely fascinating to watch and sketch. Arthur, despite knowing it was merely a stereotype, had more than a few pages filled with pictures of the young man with a katana, enjoying the curve of the blade and just imagining the dark and deep eyes reflected in the near-pefect metal.

"Hello Kiku," he said kindly, only receiving a small nod in response, the boy moving the book closer to his face, appearing to sink lower in his hoodie, much like a turtle. Arthur was rather pleased; a nod meant that the quiet boy had _actually_ acknowledged him, quite a step forward from the usual stony silence he received. He was rather reminded of Natalia at times but Kiku had yet to wield a knife at him so the young Japanese man was still in his good books.

Turning his attention to the still bickering couple on the other side of Kiku, Arthur waited for the chef to take a breath before quickly interjecting a 'The usually please Yao'. The slightly-feminine man behind the counter immediately started to pull ingredients from the bowls and cases around him, throwing them into the wok without even watching and finally, Arthur was able to catch up with the argument as it shifted into English.

"But Aniki," the second oldest member of the Yao brood, Yong Soo, complained, "I need Mei's hour so I can watch the newest episode of '_Once Upon a Time in Saengchori_'!" Arthur only knew what this was from the sheer amount of time he spent in this restaurant. One time he had accidentally sat down next to Yong Soo and asked what the young man had been watching on the telly.

For an hour, Arthur had learnt the entire plot of the one series while also receiving his first formal introduction to Korean Dramas (or KDramas as Yong Soo seemed to refer to them as) and numerous recommendations all with names he couldn't even follow because the Korean just talked _too-damned-fast_. Though this had spawned many a strange picture in his sketchbook after he had tried to watch one of the series, ending up just sketching the enthusiastic young man, attempting to tame that excitement onto a page. It was nearly impossible as the drawing always seemed to want to jump right off and run away.

From then on, Arthur was sure to keep his mouth, especially when it came to the boy's daytime soaps. But Yao wasn't about to let the boy do whatever he wanted, opening his mouth to retorts as the door to the small restaurant opened, letting the sound of rain disrupt the calm conversation of the customers for a moment, and another member of the family walked in, red raincoat shining from the rain outside and the light that shone down on him.

He moved close to the kitchen, stopping right at the hip-high divider to the back sliding off his jacket and shaking his dark hair free of rain and handing over the money from his deliveries, not saying a word as he hung the coat up before taking a seat on Arthur's other side. Which left him between two very quiet people as he swallowed lightly, looking to his left, smiling lightly at the new arrival. Wang "Maddox" (which was an Arthur-only nickname for the boy) Zhi blinked over at Arthur and gave a curt nod.

"Deliveries?" Arthur prompted as he watched Yao prepare his food.

A nod.

"Good day? It's rather rainy out."

Another nod along with a fleeting glance before the golden eyes focused on something just past Arthur. The Brit followed his gaze, glancing at Kiku's textbook and then just seeing the edge of another book hidden within the diagrams and definitions of a medical nature. Leaning back in his chair, the next thing Arthur caught was a very detailed image of a woman in lingerie and he quickly sat forward with a small jump as Yao placed the plate of food in front of him. Stuttering out a thank you, his cheeks flushing, Arthur started to eat while on his left, he was almost sure he saw Maddox smile for half-a-second.

At least his embarrassment seemed to be amusing.

The restaurant seemed to slowly start to empty as Arthur found himself only halfway through his plate and entirely full but still eating, not keen on getting a talking-to from Yao about not eating enough. The Chinese man had taken special interest in Arthur ever since Alfred's departure. By special interest, Yao practically knew as much about the situation as Roderich did. A Chinese chef, who did admittedly make some of the best ginger beef Arthur had ever had, knew as much about Arthur as the Brit's Austrian psychologist did.

And Arthur didn't question it for a moment, Yao's motherly habits, while incredibly annoying, still comforting in their very strange way.

"You need to get out more."

Perhaps not that comforting. Arthur looked up from his food, frowning. "Get out more? I'm not even in my flat, I'm out here-"

"In the restaurant you come to nearly every night, aru," the chef said, taking non of Arthur's nonsense, ladle waving at him and cutting off Arthur's sputtered protests, "you need a new restaurant and a new life. You can't just keep coming back here and ordering the exact same thing aru. In fact, I'm never making you the same thing again, you'll just have to order something new."

The Brit blinked. "That's unfair-" And for the second time that night, the door opened and yet another member of Yao's extended family trudged inside.

Mei completed Yao's small family as the youngest and only female. Admittedly, she was tougher than her siblings and tended to keep the other three boys under control if the oldest brother, Yao, was unavailable. Smiling and always happy to offer a tidbit of conversation about the drama of her high-school, Mei was one of the few that Arthur could continue a conversation with. Mostly because she did all the talking, but still, he got a word in once-or-twice. Clearly a conversation.

As Arthur watched them all, he smiled to himself and curled his hands into fists under the table. Much like Katya's family, Arthur found himself sketching the five together rather often, Yao always trying to tame the other four. It was amazing just how closely knit they all seemed to be and yet how entirely different each one was, the Chinese man with his mothering, Kiku with his quiet reading (and apparently perversion), Yong Soo, always so loud and alive, Mei with her demure and sweetness while Maddox always just watched, rather content with those stunning golden eyes.

Somehow, Arthur felt entire at home with the people and like a guest.

For now, something else seemed to be stirring. Mei was talking and it was apparently important enough for Yong Soo to pull his eyes away from the two actors on the television to focus on the girl, jaw dropping slightly. Arthur tuned it, just catching a bit of her words. "-he's totally hot too! I mean he's so sweet and tall and he's got a great body and makes the best Danishes! Isn't that funny? He's Danish and he makes great Danishes!"

The four men were silent and Arthur watched curiously, fork resting in his food as the grill near Yao sizzled and the rain outside splattered against the window.

Yao was the first to react, nearly throwing himself over the bar and upending Kiku's textbook, causing the manga Love Hina to fall out onto the floor, and throwing his arms around Mei, dissolving to Chinese-English and perhaps some other language. From what Arthur gathered, it was something along the lines of "oh god not the scary Dane who runs the drycleaners- my Mei-Mei, corrupted already by the blond Nords. I'm going to cut his dick off that bastard, stealing my little Mei-"

Arthur had to laugh as Kiku quietly leaned over, cheeks flushed as he picked up his fallen manga, tucking it away while Yong Soo had also thrown himself into the embrace on top of Yao, snuggling against him and appearing entirely unconcerned about his half-sister and more just enjoying being so close to his 'aniki'.

"I won't allow it-" Yao said, screeching a little when he felt Yong Soo on his back, trying to fight him off while still clinging to Mei. It was an interesting fight to watch as Yao attempted to fight off the Korean with the backs of his knees. "You can't date a Dane!"

Mei rolled her eyes and tried to fight away from her overbearing brother while Arthur watched as Kiku somehow disappeared from his chair and ended up sandwiched between Yong Soon and Yao, stuttering his replies while Yong Soo merely seemed pleased by the surprise family hug, trying to cajole Maddox into joining. And the younger man seemed to relent, standing up and starting towards the pile of tears, a squirming Mei, a near-unconscious-from-the-closeness Kiku and a still entirely-pleased-with-himself Korean.

Leaving a small note on the counter, Arthur quickly pulled on his jacket and managed away from the family before he got sucked into the hug. But part of him dearly wished to stay and to be in that small bubble. To care about Mei's dating endeavors, the watch more strange television and to find out exactly what Love Hina was.

But that wasn't his family. He already had one. One that had been with Alfred.

This thought filling his head as he opened the door, Arthur barely noticed as he bumped into a brunet as he tried to walk out. He looked up, muttering a small apology and reciving a smile in return (one nearly as bright as Alfred's) and continued outside, thinking for a moment that perhaps he recognised the brunet. But surely not and Arthur found himself much too bothered with getting home before it really started to pour than to give more than a thought to the passing man.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Haha- guess who's totally back for reals this time guys? Everyone kept commenting and talking about my fanfiction all in this last week and with a hiatus at my usual rp comm I found myself with a lot of pent up creative juices and HERE I AM~!

This was one of the filler chapters which is not the best one to pick up on but I don't care~! It needs to be done and I promise the next one will have more action and not derping about with no real plot in mind (though this may come in later. I'M NOT TOO SURE MYSELF). and maybe next chapter will have more prussia.

UNTIL THEN... /flies off.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

_Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place_. -Zora Neale Hurston

* * *

The piano was honestly one of the most beautiful things Arthur had ever heard.

How he wished he could capture it in a drawing, to show the harmonies weaving together and the flow and ebb of the feelings. If Arthur had to ever swallow his pride and bow down to another art form, music would be it. With art, there were mediums, colours and nearly ceaseless ways to express. Everything could be art.

With music, there was a sense of structure; and with this structure came immense beauty. There were technically thirteen notes that were higher or lower. That was it. Someone had to construct something from a piteous selection while also keeping in mind sound, tone, how much a player could actually accomplish along with harmonies and what sounded _right_. And that was just with one instrument alone.

Arthur couldn't even begin to imagine the work that came with composing a symphony.

So he didn't. He merely let the music wash over him in waves. It was supposed to be a session with Roderich but when he'd walked into the home (invited in by a note on the door that read 'Come in Arthur, and stay for dinner, pot roast') it was to find it rather empty; Elizaveta's coat missing from the rack near the door and the quiet piano echoing throughout.

Careful not to make a noise, he slipped his shoes off, seat them aside and made his way up the stairs, taking care to miss the ones that creaked before nudging open the door to the doctor's office. The Austrian made know acknowledgment of Arthur save the swelling of his music and the Brit quickly sat down, watching carefully.

It was nearly a minute before the music stopped and Arthur, who didn't quite remember closing his eyes, found himself opening them and blinking at Roderich who brushed a small hair off of his shoulder before lightly closing the piano and walking back over to his desk, sitting down and holding out a hand.

"The journal please, Arthur."

Rummaging in his bag, Arthur held it out and felt it leave his hands and in this action he suddenly felt very _open_. Pure emotions were on those pages and here he was handing them over. The idea of Roderich reading some of his innermost thought and wants brought a flush to his cheeks and he lifted a hand to try and rub it away with little success.

Roderich took a few minutes to read it, carefully turning pages; eyes scanning the words while Arthur continued to watch him just as carefully. Was that fear, doubt, worry, satisfaction, remorse or something else entirely on the doctor's face? The more Arthur stared, the more the apparent emotion confused him. Was that… acceptance? Or perhaps the Brit was just that terrible at reading people, which was not entirely implausible, he did have a nasty habit of misinterpretations of emotions which all led to very awkward situations.

Perhaps it had been his time with the American that had desensitised himself to other emotions. Everything Alfred felt was clear and readable on his face; the definition of an open book, which is why he was rather perfect for Arthur who, when it came to social cues, was about as well-versed at as a child attempting to ride a too-large bicycle.

Roderich's words finally pulled Arthur from his reminiscing. "You mention someone here…" he said, stopping on one of the newer entries, "Well, you mention him several times. Francis? The Frenchman, he's hired you?"

"Oh, yes," Arthur said, quickly explaining Francis' request while Roderich only gave a small nod, "He's rather kind, and cultured. Well, as cultured as a frog can be, but he's surprisingly charming and I definitely have to compliment him on his photography. It _is_ rather impressive-"

"I think Arthur's got a crush~" For a moment, Arthur thought that Roderich had said this and it nearly toppled him out of his chair until he followed the Austrian's gaze and found Elizaveta standing at the door of the office, cheeks pink from the cold wind outside and smiling widely.

Attempting to figure out why she was smiling, Arthur quickly spotted the reason why. A shock of white hair was hovering behind her and when the woman moved further into the room, Arthur was treated to the full view of Gilbert Beilschmidt sporting papers bags overflowing with food. The Prussian blinked at the Brit and the Englishman blinked back, feeling himself smile.

Gilbert's strange looks made him one of Arthur's favourite models. Not that he'd ever tell the Prussian that because the man's ego was already inflated and bloated enough but if one were to peer through Arthur's sketchbooks, it would be to the Prussian as a knight. Occasionally Elizaveta would appear next to Gilbert, just as fierce in her own armour.

As close as the Hungarian was to her husband, it was clear that her best friend was Gilbert. He'd heard that they had been friends since high school but it was obvious in the way they worked together. Not that you'd pin them as best friends if you saw them, because usually if they were together, they were arguing.

"Gil, what are you still doing up here?" the Hungarian said, putting a hand on her hip and smirking at the pale man, "Go downstairs and unpack those groceries already!"

The Prussian wasn't quick on his response as Arthur was expecting, but crimson eyes still stuck on Arthur before darting to the Austrian who gave a small nod and then back to the Brit, the thin face breaking out in a wide smile. "Yeah, yeah I'm going," he said, turning, "keep your panties on."

"Let me help," Arthur said quickly, standing up, "Have to make sure you don't drop the roast and I'll have to eat Chinese again."

Following Gilbert downstairs, he quickly took one of the bags, placing it on the counter, starting to unload it while the Prussian merely watched him curiously, unpacking his bag much slower, as if trying to figure out if Arthur was merely a ghost of some kind. The Brit only allowed this for a few minutes (as he really didn't appreciate being looked at like he was a ghost), looking back at Gilbert and allowing a frown to furrow his brow.

Taking a deep breath, he jabbed a finger at Gilbert's chest. "What's wrong?" He asked, arching an eyebrow and folding his arms. And then it clicked. "Oh- bloody hell I forgot- it's nearly been… Jesus, three years?"

Crimson eyes blinked. "Three years…? Oh yeah- right since Alfred…"

"Exactly, since Alfred got here," The Brit laughed, rubbed his face tiredly. "Well he's gone now, so I guess I'm back." And this thought made Arthur feel a little lighter. He didn't need Alfred to continue, not to say he didn't miss the boy terribly, but seeing Gilbert, a friend from before Alfred, still here and talking, well, it was nice.

Gilbert took a moment to answer. "Right- you're back," and he smiled, trying to laugh along with the Brit while pulling out the carrots and resting them on the cutting board, "it's really good to see you again Arthur,"

This is oddly sentimental and touching, so much so that Arthur actually whacked Gilbert's arm. "What's got you all soppy? It's unfitting of you."

"You're the artist," Gilbert said, "you should be loving my emotions! Draw me Artie! C'mon, you know I'm awesome-" And with this, it was simple to move back into his biting and sharp relationship with the Prussian. Perhaps not as confrontational as Elizaveta and Gilbert's friendship was, Arthur still found himself often fighting with the Prussian and he revelled in it.

How long had it been since he's exchanged remarks like this? His mind had grown soft from his three months of moping but within fifteen minutes, Arthur was just as sharp as he remembered The snark only improved when Elizaveta came down, immediately ordering them about giving Arthur the easiest jobs, knowing that his artist hands did not transfer into the world of culinary expertise.

Gilbert and the Hungarian were at loggerheads immediately and the rest of the night descended into fighting, the sweet and thick smell of cured meats, wine and good company. For once, Arthur was so occupied with exchanging stories and jokes and words that everything else just seemed to fall away. Much like with Yao's family, when Arthur was here, he saw a family but here, he was _part_ of it and it was filling him with a warmth he hadn't had since Alfred. And he wasn't even noticing, it was as if the warmth had never truly left him, merely had cooled and here, amid the conversation and lazy lounging in the living room and a third bottle of wine, it was sparking again.

The next morning, Arthur found himself curled up in the guest bedroom of the Austrian's home, draped in a heavy quilt and his head pounding from the wine he had consumed the night before. Even with the immense hangover jabbing needles into his head, Arthur still felt _good_, or perhaps that was the wrong word. It was that warmth and it made him feel like a balloon. Full.

Yes, full. Arthur felt full and warm for the first time since Alfred had left and this alone could make him ignore the pounding headache. For a few minutes at least before he was curling back up under the covers and cursing and swearing that he would never drink again and oh-bloody-hell how had Gilbert convinced him to drink so much? Stupid Prussian-

"Before you go cursing my best friend, you might want to check that your door is closed," Arthur peeked over his covers to see Elizaveta walking over with a cup of tea in Arthur's favourite mug and in her other hand... was that-

"Tylenol," Arthur said, sitting up, taking the pills and swallowing them down with the tea, sinking against the headboard and sighing happily. "You are an angel Elizaveta. How are you not...?"

The Hungarian grinned, winking. "I didn't drink as much as you and Gil did. It was impressive to be honest. I haven't seen you this relaxed in ages," she sat down on his bed, resting a hand on his leg. "It honestly suits you Arthur. You were never much of a moper."

Allowing a finger to drag along the edge of his teacup, Arthur felt his cheeks heat up slightly. As good of a doctor as Roderich was, Elizaveta had a natural intuition about people and usually it was right on target. "I know," he said quietly, sipping his tea, resting it in his lap, "last night was absolutely brilliant, I haven't had that much fun in ages. Almost thought I'd forgotten but I suppose having Gilbert around tends to keep things exciting."

Her laugh was light and did not hurt Arthur's head. "Yes, he does tend to bring out the life in people, as annoying as the bastard is." She let out a soft sigh. "Fell asleep on the couch, like the loser he is. Hasn't working up and I was banging about the kitchen." Her cheeks tinted a light pink and graceful fingers played with the ring around her finger.

Arthur reached out, quickly taking her hand. "Don't fret love," he said, smiling, "you are very lucky to have two such men in your life, treasure them both."

Appearing a little shocked, Elizaveta quickly waved her hands, face turning an even darker shade of red. "When was I the one getting romantic advice all of a sudden?" She ran her fingers through her hair, drawing it all over her left shoulder, "And I have _three_ special men in my life. Don't be so quick to count yourself out Arthur."

Not sure if she meant it or was just saying to make him turn red as well (which it did) Arthur merely grumbled into his tea.

Squeezing his leg as she laughed, Elizaveta gently poked his nose. "But you can't just continue to hide with us forever Arthur," she shook her head as he tried to argue that he could do whatever he wanted as he was a grown man. "Please. Meet new people, you're likable once you get past your crusty and crotchety outside. Go see this Francis guy, you sound like you really like him and you can't just hang around here forever and bum food."

Arthur sighed. "You are almost better at your husband's job than he is," he said. "And I do not just bum food off of you. I also come for the tea and the _lovely_ lady. I am but a poor starving artist and she wishes to kick me out on the street. What will I ever do?"

He pouted. She pinched his nose. "Well, I suppose I can give you one last breakfast." Standing up, Elizaveta left the room while Arthur tended to his tea for a few more minutes before dragging himself out of bed and joining her downstairs, settling on the couch (which Gilbert still on it) and enjoying a obscenely large breakfast while under him Gilbert seemed to be stuck in German-mode, red eyes rimmed with dark circles as he alternated between eating toast and throwing half-comprehended sentences at them.

Arthur didn't pay much attention to him, off in his own little world, Elizaveta words playing over and over in his head. Did he really like Francis? Well of course he did, the man was honest, simple and childish. He'd almost compare him to Alfred, and yet there was still something different about him. Elizaveta was right, he did like the man and it was only fair to himself if he continued to see the Frenchman outside of their work relationship.

Or at least give it the old college try.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Bit of a short chapter, but nonetheless an important one~**  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

_There is no charm equal to the tenderness of the heart_. -Jane Austen

* * *

The feeling of Alfred's body next to his was almost unbearably warm.

And Arthur loved it.

He loved how hot he himself felt and how, even then, his toes were still half stretched in pleasure even though he's been pulled against the American's chest, face becoming very familiar with his collarbone.

Their breathing matched and all at once they sunk lower into the blankets, finding the cotton to be as tangled and damp as their bodies are, stretched and coiled between them. Alfred pushed away the unwanted block between them, one arm managing to straighten the cover out before pulling it over them.

Arthur's world was a mix of tanned skin and white until his tired hand pulls down the sheet, letting it rest on his chest while he drags his fingers over the broad shoulders of the American, to his chest and the chains there, letting his joints knot into the golden chains.

Finally, Alfred speaks. His voice is still breathless but Arthur can hear the smile, ever present, on his face and feels it in the breath that ruffles the top of his hair. "I think… I need to go back to America for a bit."

The Brit frowned and the pleasure sunk out of him. Carefully, he moved up the bed, toes brushing Alfred's shins, staring into the blue eyes. At foot of his bed, the balcony door was half opened and the rain was gone from the sky, instead tiny fireflies from the park floating near the open window, swirling in the breeze like bright motes of dust.

"You've really got to work on your timing Alfred." Arthur murmured, lifting a hand, flicking his forehead before brushing some of the golden hair away from his face, letting the back of his fingers rest against the American's warm cheek.

Nuzzling up against the hand, Alfred smiled, lifting his own, much larger one, covering Arthur's, curling his fingers around it.

"Don't worry, I'll be back before you know it."

But before Alfred could seal the promise with a kiss to the Brit's knuckles, Arthur's eyes had opened and he was staring up at the ceiling of his apartment, the sunshine across the ceiling nearly three years older than the dream.

Or was it a memory?

He sighed, rubbed his face. It was more of a dream than a memory. Alfred was fading from his mind, harder to remember, harder to pull from the depths of his mind. Only in dreams did he seem to recollect anything. Well, at least he had his journal, which would always perhaps provide the tiniest of insights and always serve as a reminder that, indeed, Alfred had been real.

Getting ready for his meeting with Francis took no time at all and within the half-an-hour, Arthur was on the Tube to Piccadilly line and getting out at the Green Park station, walking along the busy street, on his left was the sprawling grounds of the park, the trees lush and rustling in the light breeze while on his right stretched the busy heart of London, flashes of the red double-deckers passing by every few seconds.

Arthur found himself turning away from the green (how badly he wished to stay and sketch the gates and how those would be nothing more than a crumbled ruin with vine overgrown, building more of the gate than the corroding iron would be) and losing himself with the high buildings.

Finally, Arthur found it and stood outside the Frenchman's blue door for a good few minutes, simply staring at the brass numbers of the front. For a moment, he felt like walking away, sitting down in a café and sulking over a tea -and perhaps alter make a trip down to the pub and continue his moping there.

This was, however, a business trip and that not-so-tiny part of Arthur that had work ethic and a need to see things all the way through was lifting his fist and knocking it against the blue door.

A call, muffled, came from the inside and within a minute, Francis had opened the front door, beaming at Arthur. He was elegant as always (save for the fluffy slippers he had on his feet) and smelt of spices and sweetness, and Arthur took a deep breath. The smell of cooking was undeniable but unlike Elizaveta's homely and warm, this was spicy and unpredictable. Arthur's nose couldn't guess what it was and he found himself drawn into the house by the smell.

"What is that?" he asked, finally giving in as he slid off his coat, hanging it up, picking up his messenger bag and gesturing at the kitchen.

Francis smiled, hurrying back over, brushing his hands off on his apron before pulling Arthur over with a mere curl of his finger. The Brit hovered while Francis took the top off a pot. Steam curled like smoke from the dragon's mouth and the red inside bubbled and filled the air with spice and… fish?

Leaning closer to take a deeper small, Arthur found himself met with a spoonful of the red liquid, a large piece of _congre_ floating in the middle. He looked to Francis who gave an encouraging nod. Taking the hesitant bite, and burning his tongue on the spoon, Arthur hummed in approval, giving Francis a nod.

And just perhaps his cheeks heated at the smile the Frenchman beamed at him.

"I'm glad you like it," he said, setting the spoon aside and picking up a wooden one, stirring the mix, adding a few spices that Arthur only caught whiffs of before they disappeared into the boiling red mass. "It's called bouillabaisse, it is my mother's recipe and I found it while cleaning up a little and thought I'd try it. And if I can impress an Englishman-"

"Oy," Arthur said quickly, glaring a little, "we're not terrible cooks! Well, not all of us. I know a good meal when I've had one."

Francis smiled. "And my bouillabaisse, she passes your little test, _oui_?"

"That remains to be seen," Arthur said, leaning against the counter, folding his arms against his chest "Do I get a bowl if I say yes?"

Those brilliant blue eyes rolled a little and Francis mumbled something under his breath that Arthur didn't quite catch, but it sounded light-hearted and Francis gave a small nod. "But- ah- let me show you were I would like ze tank."

Leading Arthur out of the kitchen, Francis pulled him into the living room and Arthur looked around. There were no walls separating the kitchen from the sitting area, giving the entire place a very open feeling. It was mostly white, the walls, furniture and finishing all bathed in a creamy white. The only hints of colour came from knick-knacks, photos, pillows and the light brown of the hardwood floor.

"I would like it in ze middle," Francis said, gesturing where a table was, "like a table- but with a turtle… So we can see through where 'e will be."

Arthur plopped down onto one of the couches, settling down and nodding. "I can do that… I have some people I can put you in contact with too for this kind of thing." He smiled, taking out his sketchbook, "And you're right, being here makes it much easier to draw things… Is there a time limit for how long I can stay?"

The Frenchman hummed with thought as he wandered back to the kitchen, taking down a bowl. "Not zat I can think of… You can stay until Antonio gives me a call, _oui_? That usually mean that 'e is on 'is way and will be 'ere within minutes."

Nodding, Arthur lifted his feet, tucking them under his person, opening to a fresh page, brushing his hands over it before starting to sketch. The process of drawing an aquarium in the middle of a room should've taken an hour at most but Arthur was finding himself more and more distracted.

Francis insisted on feeding him, poking through his other sketches, asking him about where he studied, where his exhibitions had been, his family, friends, nearly everything about him and Arthur would feel obliged to answer, pencil slowing on lines as he forced himself to answer questions properly.

And he found that he didn't mind. Usually he'd focus all his time on his sketches and be done with it but Francis would sit and watch him as if he were the most important person in the world and each word he said was of vital importance. Perhaps it was that French charm, but Arthur was talking more to Francis than he had to anyone besides Roderich in the last three years.

He wasn't the only one talking either. Francis was indeed a fascinating man, whose passions seemed to spread all over the map. Not just cooking, but a keen eye for photography, the man was absolutely in love with travelling. "I simply love seeing the world," he'd told Arthur while picking through one of the Brit's sketchbooks, fingers tracing fingers over the swirling designs of an airship docking on the edge of the Thames, "she 'as so many secrets for me, and I want to see as many of them as I can before I pass away."

One hour had turned to two, and then to four, and Arthur had moved on from the spiced fish soup to a cream slice (though Francis called it a _mille-feuille_) and a bottle of wine that Francis insisted would be the best Arthur would ever taste. His sketchbook aside, the sketch finished and ignored as they spoke.

"Ian is my older brother, up at Glasgow University, teaching English," Arthur said, poking the cherry Francis had placed on top of the pastry around his plate idly, "Dewi is my second eldest, bit of a drama queen, wants to star on the West End. Says he looks like David Tennant, but I don't see it, I think he's just full of himself. Then there's Mirien, she's probably the toughest of us all. Off in Ireland, working at a pub I believe, but we don't hear form her very much. I don't think she's every forgiven me for cutting off the hair of her dolls when we were kids."

Francis laughed, lifting the glass of wine to his lips, taking a long sip, finishing it off and pouring himself another, topping Arthur's as well. "I miss my sisters very much," he said, stretching an arm, yawning lightly, "One is ze very successful 'ead of a casino in Monaco and ze other, well, she is my 'alf-sister and is in ze Seychelles, doing work on ze fish down zhere or something."

"What are their names?" Arthur asked, placing the cherry in his mouth and putting the plate aside to pick up his wine.

Francis stood up, walking over to a table near the windows, which were now grey with dusk, picking up a photo and giving it to Arthur. It had two young girls, both very pretty, those only one was smiling, her dark pigtails tamed by red ribbons, while the other appeared a little surly, sharp eyes behind large glasses.

"Grace is ze pouting one," Francis said, sitting down next to Arthur, leaning against him slightly, "And Lucy-Marie is ze smiling one. I believe they are about… eleven 'ere. I was just leaving for university and they wanted me to take a picture of zem."

The sudden close contact caught Arthur off-guard but instead of moving away as he would usually do when someone got this close, he leaned against the Frenchman, watching as their shoulders, sides, legs and knees all lined up. It was the more intimate contact he'd had with someone since Alfred.

Francis didn't seem to notice that Arthur was nearly tingling with electricity as he took the photo from Arthur, not moving from his spot, long fingers tracing down the faces of his sisters. The Brit watched quietly, the hand around his wine glass shaking slightly. Christ, he could smell the Merlot and cologne on the Frenchman…

"I suppose it is them I must thank for starting my passion for ze camera," he said, standing suddenly as if pulled from a memory. Arthur almost fell over upon losing his support, "They made me take zis photo… But I 'ave bored you enough for one night, non? And you are done your sketch, you can leave if you'd like.

But Arthur didn't think he'd like to leave. He wanted to talk more socialise, just _be_ with someone. Even if he knew he could never have the Frenchman in the way his body yearned -three years of no partner was also getting to Arthur, another reason why he was acting a little like a blushing school-girl-

The phone rang and Francis looked over towards the machine, rushing over, picking up quickly. "Bonjour, Francis ici-" a small smile broke across his face and he mouthed a single word at Arthur.

_Antonio_.

Well, when God was kind enough to give a sign that clear to leave… Arthur nodded, quickly packing up his things, tucking them into his bag carefully. Picking up his glass of wine, he finished it in one gulp, which earned him a rather reproachful look from Francis. Silly Frenchman, didn't know that in the end alcohol was alcohol to a spirits-dashed Brit.

Arthur reached for his coat beside the blue door, ready to leave and perhaps spend the rest of his night curling up with a good book in his bed and falling asleep with the words merging together with his face if he was stupid enough to fall asleep with the book on his face.

Before he even had his right arm into the sleeve, he was faced with worried-looking Francis. Even though the man had looked uncomfortable the entire time Arthur had sat and sketched, now the true worry was written across his face in plain, so plain that even the Brit could read it. He straightened, coat half on his arm, eyebrow inviting the Frenchman to speak.

Perhaps he was being fired…

"Ah- Arthur," Francis said, nervously wringing the phone between his hands, fingerprints marking up the smooth, black surface. "Antonio 'as just told me zat 'e will be out of town for another day or two."

The Brit nodded. Francis had mentioned something that night about Antonio doing a lot of work in Italy with a large family, Vargas or something. "Would you like me to stay?" He asked, not all that hopeful. Or maybe this way Francis hinting that he'd like a good shag- _What the hell is wrong with me today?_

Francis shook his head quickly and Arthur felt his shoulders sink. The Frenchman didn't miss that. "Not zat I 'aven't been enjoying your company zis night. You 'ave been a wonderful guest," he smiled, quiet and warm, not a trace of a lie within the pink lips, "but I 'ave another favour to ask of you. It is quite a big one and I understand if you cannot do it-"

"What is it?" Arthur asked, sliding his other arm into his coat.

"An art show- well, not exactly," Francis said, running a hand through his head, "I was going to have my photos exhibited at an art gallery nearby, and there was an opening party tomorrow night and… well my date just cancelled on me for some little Italian-" The Frenchman cut himself off before his words got anymore poisonous. Arthur was almost shocked at how angry Francis had sounded when he mentioned the Italian. The man was usually so relaxed, the anger behind his words was unsettling.

And then something clicked in his head.

Arthur blinked, poking himself in the chest. "Are you asking me to go?"

Francis nodded, looking possibly more pathetic and pouty than a lost puppy.

"I'd love to go." Arthur said without hesitation. "Just tell me when and where, I hardly do anything on the weekdays anyway." Or the weekends for that matter, but Francis didn't need to know that.

Another wide smile, the same one Francis had when he'd answered the phone and heard Anotnio's voice, broke out across his face and he ran off to write the information on a post-it while Arthur buttoned up his coat, slipping his bag over his shoulder.

Francis took his hand, pressing the note into his skin, holding Arthur's hand with both of his for a moment. "_Merci beaucoup_," he said, "You do not know 'ow much zis means to mean, I 'aven't really gotten out to meet many people since we moved 'ere…"

"It's not trouble," Arthur said, pulling his hand away, tucking it into his pocket and clutching the note tightly. "Really, I'm just flattered you'd ask me to come. I'll see you there."

Moving to the door, Arthur opened it before Francis spoke. "And there is an open bar," he said, leaning against the wall, smirking, "I 'ope you will not be throwing back ze wine there like you did with my Merlot."

Arthur grinned, looking over his shoulder. "Well, it's not an art show until someone gets embarrassingly drunk." His tone was neutral and Arthur could tell that Francis wasn't sure if he was kidding or not. He was glad he wasn't the only one who could be thrown off-guard. "I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight Francis."

Closing the blue door behind him, Arthur allowed himself to sink against it for a moment, pulling the note form his pocket and staring at the numbers. Above him, a streetlight was flickering into life and he smiled to himself.

"Date with an already-involved man who I'm attracted to," he said, shaking his head, stuffing the note into a pocket, "Brilliant work Arthur. Bloody brilliant."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

_Love is a smoke made with the fumes of sighs._ -William Shakespeare

* * *

The night, quiet with the gentleness of a backstreet in London, is warm and yet Arthur still finds himself buried in a scarf with his hands curled into fists in his pockets. He has his messenger bag around his shoulder as he walks, the rhythmic whack of the fabric against his thigh comforting, like the adventuring hand of a certain lover (but Arthur can't exactly smack the tanned hand away because he adored it so much).

There's nothing in the bag but a sketchbook, his wallet, a few pens, pencils, a cough drop, change and receipts he's stuffed in there. Arthur isn't quite sure what one brings to a photography exhibition besides a snobbish attitude and an eye for artsy black and white shots of the sky.

Sighing, he shook his head, feet turning down a corner. Surely he should have more faith in Francis than that. The Sky wouldn't be big enough for that lens of his. Arthur's feet take him right, left, down two blocks, back one, to a small corner shop where he has to ask for directions while buying an issue of The Times which joins his sketchbook, the cough drop, the pens and pencils and receipts in his bag.

Finally, with the help of the directions from the lady working the counter at the corner shop, he finds the bloody place and stands outside for a moment, looking at the display.

Comptine

~a collection by F. Bonneboy~

The word doesn't register in his vocabulary and Arthur senses something distinctly _French_ about it and sniffs a little. But he goes inside anyway and his breath stops.

Upon walking into the small gallery, he is greeted by his own face. That day, sitting in the café comes back to him, and Arthur swallows a little upon seeing that lost face of his. All at once he wants to kill the Frenchman, run away and flush from embarrassment.

He managed all three.

Hurrying through the gallery and finding himself surrounded by photos of the world (Paris; underground - the skulls of an entire city stare at him|London; tube - a single person sits as the graffiti behind them on the brick walls that shelter the railings are bathed in golden light|Spain; a bedroom - a single green eye peeks over a shoulder, the rest of the body dark, perfect, bare and leaning on the railing of a balcony) before finding Francis, staring at him, swallowing.

His cheeks darkened as he felt the blue gaze on him. The reality of the photos around him makes him shudder and move closer to Francis. All his sketches of other worlds, magic and everything not quite there but on the fraying edges of human kind seemed to fade away when he was in this entire room dedicated to capturing things that we real.

And there, now only a foot from him, was their keeper, smiling and a few feet away- make that zero feet. Arthur found himself pulled into a warm and long hug from the Frenchman before roughly behind pushed away, held at arms length, Francis absolutely _beaming_ at him. His words got a little lost before he shook his head.

"What the rudding hell that picture doing at the _front_," he demanded and that bright smile faded a few watts and those large hands, warm and delicate on his shoulders dropped. Arthur was pleased and disheartened by his reaction. "You could've at least asked!"

The Frenchman sniffed, not the kind like he was about to break out into sobs but the kind that made Arthur's heart give a little twinge of regret. "I thought you'd be pleased…" he murmured, tugged guiltily at a curl of golden hair, avoiding Arthur's eye. "_Je suis désolé_… I will 'ave it taken down-"

Arthur swallowed, folding arms over his chest. "Well it's already up there," he murmured, waving a hand at it, "might as well leave it. But no more, or I will kill you."

Watching as long and elegant fingers (used to capture moments) poked together, Arthur's gaze flicked up to see the blue eyes, the ones he could never capture properly, still looking guilty. "There is one more of you," he said, "but I will show you, _oui_?"

An offered hand. Arthur forgot for a moment that his own fingers, a different kind of elegant (used to forget moments), were connected to his arm and brain. Green eyes blinked and the Frenchman's fingers started to recoil but before the apology was even leaving the rosy lips, Arthur snatched his hand.

"I'm still going to kill you." The empty threat makes Francis laugh as he gives Arthur a tour of the exhibition.

At first, Arthur is awkward as he follows the Frenchman's lead through the exhibition but relaxes upon seeing the first picture because it's of nothing more than Francis' home in a small Polaroid, tiny beside the large printed canvases. Arthur bent over a little to see it and Francis' fingers left his, though warmth still tingled in the very tips.

Francis' voice almost comes from far away, another plane, but Arthur tunes in immediately. "This is the second picture people should see when they walk in," he said, pointing to the front lawn. "See the woman in the white dress? That is my cousin, Jeanne."

Arthur had almost missed the woman and he wasn't sure why. She was centred in the photo and Arthur had to blink to focus on her, he'd blame it on the ancientness of the photo however everything else in the Polaroid had been clear as day (the lilies in the front yard, the blue of the sky and even the green grass.

It appeared as though, like Francis' voice, as though she had been on some other world. Ethereal, like one of Arthur's faeries, only there is one sees it at the corner of their eye or blinks and squints so much so that their nose wrinkles.

Something clicked in the Brit's head and he looked back at Francis. The man smiled at him and again the artist stared at him before straightening. "This was the first picture I ever took," he murmured, running a hand through his hair, resting it on the cross at his neck. "It is perhaps my favourite here."

While Francis towed Arthur through the rest of the exhibition, through his entire life as the exhibition was a timeline of the Frenchman's life, from his childhood in the French countryside to the beautiful streets of Paris and then the mix-and-match of a travelling student, Arthur tried to figure out what exactly had clicked.

Why was he suddenly seeing the pictures in an entire new light? It was as if, when looking at them with Francis, their entire meaning changed. What one had expected from an empty street had a story behind it, one of heartbreak and loneliness. The hospital waiting room became, not a scene where people were taken to be saved, but where people came to wait to be hurt.

Only upon arriving at the last picture of the collection did all the feelings, thoughts and emotions of the night, days, weeks and _years_ Arthur had been what he believed to be unchanged, _changed_ and made themselves understood to the Briton.

The photo, the last in the long line of Francis' life, was of him. The same café from the beginning, the same day, the same rain, the same tea, the same everything. But this time, instead of looking bereft and lost, Arthur was smiling. Not bright like Alfred or Francis, but that own small smile that he rarely had. He was working on the sketch of Francis and he was smiling.

"It's lovely."

Francis and him were one in the same; they just captured realities in their own rights. The Brit had drawings that meant something only to him; the Frenchman had photos that had stories only he knew. And that entire exhibition, from the picture of him moping to the one here, was _Francis_ at its very core. A Francis whom the Frenchman had just spent the better part of an hour leading Arthur through and revealing who he was.

The Brit realised he had done the same. The pictures of Alfred, the time spent moping on his couch. Inadvertently, the Brit had nearly spilled his entire life onto a canvas for Francis to capture and find out stories about him. There was only one thing Francis didn't know everything about.

Alfred.

At that moment, the two worlds, one with Alfred and one with Francis were merging and Arthur found himself ill with the shift.

Pushing through the crowd as best he could with one hand clapped over his mouth to keep words, tears, and whatever else had been bottled up inside, back because he felt like talking and that didn't make him feel good at all.

Outside, the cool air was like a release and he rushed down the steps of the gallery, nearly making it to the road before a hand was around his wrist and yanking him back. He stumbled, bumping Francis before pulling his hand away, glaring at Francis a hand still over his mouth as he avoided the blue eyes.

Above them, a streetlight gleamed, bathing them in an orange light.

"You call it lovely," Francis said quietly, keeping just enough distance so he could grab Arthur again, "and then run out… what is wrong?"

The fingers around Arthur's mouth tighten and he looked away, closing his eyes, shuddering. These were supposed to stay in his journal- never to be said allowed because in his journal, when he closed the cover he could pretend they didn't exist and go back to his drawings and live in that other world.

But Francis had shown him otherwise.

He couldn't keep it inside anymore.

"E-Everything-" Arthur said, looking up at him, hand falling away, "I-I am lonely and lost and so confused and I shouldn't be because before _him_ I was alright! I knew who I was and I could handle myself and yet here I am, t-three years away from him and I-I have no idea what to do with myself! I am _lost_. A-And then you bloody show up and just _yank_ me back on the bloody road and- y-you show up for a mere f-five seconds and I am smiling again-"

Arthur pressed hands to his wet cheeks, legs starting to move, to run, to hide- "I-I am a bloody fool."

But there is something keeping him still. Arms wrapping around his person and holding him tight to the warm chest. Out of instinct, Arthur tried to fight, tried to run and flee and never look back because all of those words, those _truths_ were supposed to be quiet and his.

"Arthur, _tranquille_," a voice, smooth and soft as night was whispering into his ear and cause him to stiffen and then- "Please. I understand."

Slumped.

He took a minute to find his breath and shuddered against Francis the entire time. Francis doesn't let him go; merely rubbing his back softly and hushed him. There was a subtle rocking to their bodies and Arthur's breath soon grows steady in the stale pocket of air he'd made against Francis' chest.

Pulling his head away, he glanced up at Francis, swallowing and flushing with embarrassment as he tries to mope up the tears. "Bloody hell- I don't know what came over me, I am truly s-sorry."

"Arthur- it is fine." Francis said quickly, looking Arthur straight in the eye. "That- was amazing. I have seen something so raw, so… pure." A thumb brushed a stray tear away and Arthur leaned away automatically from the touch, the hug still too much of a personal space invasion for his liking.

Francis sighed heavily and looked down at him. "You have him and I have Jeanne. She is dead and your… significant other-"

"Alfred." The name burnt on Arthur's tongue.

"-Alfred. Is gone. It is natural that we would find solace with each other. That is what friends do." The Frenchman squeezed him again and Arthur was sure if he had been shorter, he'd have found himself under the stubbly chin, tucked against the long body.

Their breathings synced. "But they are never truly gone, there are small pieces of that live on, _oui_? Like my photos and your drawings… We never forget them, as they continue to exist. Never lose his love Arthur, it made you better and I am glad to meet the… after-product of your time with him."

Arthur flushed, mumbled something and then his eyes were drawn to the left side of Francis' head. A single firefly, bright even in the light of the lamppost, was fluttering, tiny wings beating as it buzzed closer, shimmering. _Small pieces that live on…_

The green eyes flicked back to the blue ones just in time to see them widen in surprise at the kiss. Arthur's fingers, still wet from tears, clutched at the edges of Francis' jaw, holding him and tasting the wine from the night- and the Frenchman's fingers were tight in the back of his own coat and for a moment the pressure on their lips came from both sides.

And then there was nothing.

Francis watched him with confused and hurt eyes, shaking his head. "Ah- I cannot-" he said quietly, "Antonio." A weak smile, the elegant thumb brushing across French lips to wipe the taste of Arthur from them and then a sprint back into the warmth of the gallery.

Above him, the firefly hummed, one of his hands was still suspended in the air but quickly fell to his side, clenching into a fist. What was he thinking? Drunk on emotions he'd acted on them and look where he'd ended up. Glaring at the small firefly, he scoffed at it.

"This is all your fault." Reaching up, Arthur captured the small bug in his hands and hurried home.

By the time he'd arrived back, the creature had turned to dust.


End file.
